


In Williamsport

by becks



Series: Welcome to Maryland [1]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Dubious Consent, Fuck Or Die, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Omega Verse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-09
Updated: 2015-09-13
Packaged: 2018-01-15 05:07:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,623
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1292497
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/becks/pseuds/becks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Companion piece to "In Keedysville." After Will's arrest, he struggles to come to terms with a relationship he shouldn't want.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. First Visit

"Is this the encephalitis?"

Will already knows the answer but he asks the question anyway. The physician clasps his palm against Will's forehead, feeling the broiling-damp sweat that's coating his flesh. He reaches for the ophthalmoscope that's next to the examination table and shines the light, an aggressively-bright pinprick, into his eyes. Will physically recoils and tries to block the light with his palms -- but the handcuffs won't let him reach that high. The physician jots something down into Will's medical file before reporting: 

"I'm going to make the call, Mr. Graham."

"Please don't."

"How long did you wait before coming to see me?"

Will doesn't respond. He knows that the spasms stuttering uncontrollably through his limbs are doing all of the talking for him.

"You need to take responsibility for your own health."

"It's my right to refuse medical treatment."

"Not in this case." Will starts to object but the physician cuts him off: "Joint condition, Mr. Graham. Means joint decision. You know the drill." The physician crosses over to a cabinet and removes an instant cold pack, snapping the tube and releasing the chemicals. "You can keep this with you until he arrives. Make sure that you're staying hydrated. He should be here in a few hours."

The guards walk Will back down the hallway of the maximum security ward towards his cell. The lights glow with a detached phosphorescence that makes him feel like he's fading in and out. They unlock his cell door and one of them aims a tranquiler gun directly at his chest. "We're going to uncuff you, Mr. Graham. Palms flat against the wall as soon as they're off." The guard approaches him and pushes a key into the lock by his wrists; the key turns to the left with a sharp click. As soon as the guard removes the handcuffs, Will turns around and presses the palms of his hands against the cement bricks. He waits there, listening to the rattled sounds of his own breathing, until the guards' footsteps disappear down the hallway.

The cold pack has been left on his cot. He picks it up and squeezes it tightly in his fist. There's a paper cup sitting next to the sink waiting to be filled with lukewarm tap water.

Will heaves the cold pack against the wall. 

The pack splatters against the bricks, leaving a chalky smear of ammonium nitrate. The plastic shell crumples to the ground.

Will crawls underneath the blanket and buries his face into his pillow.

He's awoken by the clanging of the guard's baton against the metal bars of his cell. He tries to sit up but the nausea sluicing around in his stomach keeps him firmly pressed against the mattress. "Stay out," he rasps, sounding like his vocal cords have been abraded by sandpaper. The physician approaches him with a thermometer and presses the plastic stick underneath his tongue; Will squeezes his eyes shut and listens to the digital beeping. "That can't be right," the physician mutters, looking at the number.

"What does it say?"

At the sound of that voice, Will leans over the edge of the metal bed-frame, his throat constricting and a watery puddle of bile slopping out onto the floor. The click of footsteps approaching him and then a cotton handkerchief being pressed against his jawline, sopping up the regurgitation that's dribbled down his chin. Will flails out, trying to push his attendant away, but he's so disoriented that his hands are easily caught and pinned down onto the mattress. He's handled with nothing but the utmost gentility.

"106."

He feels a palm -- broad, steady -- laid over his forehead. "You need to have them call me when this happens, Will."

Will tries to force his eyes back open. He manages to catch a glimpse of Hannibal, sitting on the side of his cot, pushing his matted curls back off of his forehead. Then his eyelids seize and involuntarily fuse themselves shut.

"I'd rather be dead," Will chokes out.

"Usually, we'd be giving you twenty-four," the physician comments. "But with a fever this high and all of the other symptoms that I'm seeing him exhibiting . . . I'm going to put in an emergency medical request for forty-eight. If you're available to stay, of course. I know that you have a practice."

"Will comes before anything else," Hannibal insists.

"You'll probably want surveillance."

"That won't be necessary." Hannibal grasps onto one of Will's hands, twining their fingers together.

"When his health begins to improve, he could be dangerous."

"I sincerely doubt it."

Hannibal's tone leaves no room for negotiation. "The irony," Will chuckles after the physician has departed, sliding the metal bars of his cell back and locking them in together. But the heat fever has braised his throat and he ends up coughing out the end of the word, thick moist hacks convulsing his body. Hannibal rubs his palm down Will's back, trying to soothe him. He gasps in heaping lungfuls of the musty air that surrounds them.

"Let me help you," Hannibal requests. "You can't hold out much longer."

"That's the point."

He feels Hannibal lean down so that his breath hits the edge of his cheekbone: "If you let yourself die here, no one will ever know."

Will doesn't have to ask what he means. He listens to the sound of the rusty zipper of his jumpsuit crunching as Hannibal pulls it all the way down. Hannibal wraps an arm around his shoulder and lifts him off of the cot, peeling the sodden fabric off of his body. Will lays naked, the blistering heat flickering across the surface of his flesh. "I want . . ." Will grits out from between clenched teeth.

"What do you want, Will?"

Hannibal leans in so that their lips are almost pressed against one another's. Will exhales, a scorching puff of breath, into Hannibal's mouth.

" _I want to kill you._ "

Will feels Hannibal's lips tilt upwards into a smile.

Then Hannibal kisses him.

Every synapse in Will's sweltering mind sparks on fire with the same message: _Get away_. But the instantaneous relief that he feels overwhelms all common sense. The heat begins to abate almost immediately, although his fever hasn't broken yet. When Hannibal gets up, he cannot repress the raw whimpering that emanates from his throat.

Hannibal shushes him, cupping his cheek with the palm of his hand. "I just have to get undressed, Will," he reassures him before going about his business.

"Why are you doing this to me?" Will sobs, even as he allows his thighs to fall open.

Will feels Hannibal crawl on top of him, shifting into position. He pushes the glans of his cock inside of Will and then remains there, using inertia as its own particular form of torment. 

"I want to save you."

Then he thrusts inside of Will -- and there's nothing but a chilled numbness splashing up against the insides of Will's veins. His body, which has been battling the equivalent of a severe infection for almost a week now, becomes listless and pliant; his head lulls back against the pillowcase, surrounded by a miasma of chlorine-bleach. Hannibal sets up a gentle rhythm, reminding Will of how parents cradle their infants into sleep. And sure enough, despite the fact that he's in the middle of fucking him, Hannibal leans down and whispers:

"Sleep now, my good Will."

Will manages to stay awake until he feels the dulled throb caused by the swelling inside of him. Then he allows himself to skim the surface of sleep, gradually drifting under until he's subsumed by exhaustion.

When his eyes flicker open, Hannibal is lying next to him, staring intently. "Are you feeling any better?" he asks.

"Yes," Will grunts, his vocal chords still irritated. "Now get out."

Hannibal once again presses his palm to Will's forehead. "You're still feverish."

"I feel better."

"You may feel better -- but that doesn't mean that you're healthy, Will."

"Close enough."

Hannibal rests his palm against Will's hipbone; Will's cock twitches forcefully in response. He becomes acutely aware of the dampness between his thighs: semen and lubricant. Hannibal continues to massage the muscles directly below his groin, shifting position slightly so that he can suck forcefully on the inside of his throat. Will unconsciously tilts his head, allowing Hannibal to raise welts across the surface of his flesh. When Hannibal reaches a scarred-over bite mark at the intersection between his throat and his shoulder, sucking the raised and hardened tissue into his mouth, Will spreads his thighs and tilts his pelvis upwards. "Leave," he grits out, even as Hannibal grasps his erection in his fist.

"I'm not going anywhere." Hannibal says it reassuringly, as though Will had asked him to stay.

"Please," Will begs as Hannibal trails one finger down across his perineum and slips it inside of him.

"You're going to be alright, Will."

Hannibal slips another finger inside of him, begins fucking him. He cards his other hand through Will's sweat-soaked curls. The perspiration coating them makes each ringlet stand out in strict opposition to the others. He feels the tension gradually being released from Will's limbs; even his tightly-constricted grimace relaxes into something more vulnerable. When he removes his fingers, Will begs once again: "Please."

This time, he's begging for an entirely different reason.

Hannibal pushes himself inside of Will. "Fuck," Will exhales, wrapping his thighs tightly around his partner. The first time, all Will felt was the relief of his fever being abated. This time, he feels that sensation of being filled that, up until only a few weeks ago, was entirely foreign to him. "That's why, isn't it?" he says, realization dawning on him.

"What do you mean?"

Will rests his hand over the bite-mark on his shoulder, while Hannibal continues to fuck him. "That's why. Because you were worried that they wouldn't let you visit me here. That's why you did this before you set me up. So that you could keep seeing me." Will looks Hannibal directly in the eye for the first time since he arrived. "I didn't know you cared so much."

Will's joking, of course. But that doesn't stop Hannibal from responding with a completely serious: "Of course I care about you, Will." He leans down and presses his lips against Will's. Hannibal's breath is slightly acrid from having gone so long without access to a toothbrush; Will doesn't want to think about what his own breath must taste like. When he pulls back slightly, Hannibal adds: "But I don't know why you continue to insist that I 'set you up.'"

"You overplayed your hand with Cassie Boyle. I wasn't sick then."

"Weren't you?"

Hannibal pushes his cock up against the tightly-knit bundle of nerves that forms Will's prostate. Will almost sobs from the force of his arousal. "No, I wasn't."

"But Jack was already worried about you," Hannibal insists, refusing to let up his assault. "And Alana was already worried about you as well. That's why they scheduled your weekly appointment with me." Hannibal presses his lips against Will's forehead: "Putting you back in the field was a mistake. You killed Cassie Boyle. But it wasn't entirely your fault."

"I'm surprised you're referring to it as a 'mistake.'" They're wrapped around each other, pressed up against each other, each of them vibrating with a steady hum of need.

"You don't think of it as a mistake?"

"No, I don't think _you_ would think of it as a mistake."

"Of course. Because, in your mind, I committed all of these crimes."

"And probably more."

Hannibal leans down and whispers to Will: "What would I think of it as then?"

Will tips his head back so that he can look Hannibal in the eye.

" _A revelation._ "

Will watches while Hannibal's eyes flicker shut and he comes. Will feels the pressing and swelling inside of him; he locks his ankles around Hannibal's upper back and tilts his head back against the pillow, revealing the scar tissue puckering the inside of his throat. Catering to something far more primal than emotional manipulation, Hannibal leans down and bites hard into Will's flesh. Will kicks the heel of his foot once, twice into Hannibal's ribcage and then remains still. When Hannibal comes back up, he has Will's blood dripping from his mouth and smeared across his jaw.

Will looks away.

"You're sick, Will," Hannibal insists, while Will stares disconnectedly at the wall.

"No sicker than you."

"Perhaps."

Will looks up at Hannibal who doesn't make any effort to clean himself up.

"But you're still sick." Hannibal leans down and presses their lips together. Will can taste the copper-loaded tang of his own blood.

"You going to try to cure me, Doctor?" Will chuckles.

"I don't think you need to be cured," Hannibal says matter-of-factly. "I think you need to be understood."

\-----------

When they come to take Hannibal away, he takes both of Will's hands in his and brings them to his mouth. He kisses them with reverence before resting his cheek, scratchy with two days of stubble, against them. Will can feel dampness on Hannibal's cheeks. The cynic in him wants to believe that Hannibal's simply putting on a show, declaring his innocence before the hired help. The thought that Hannibal might actually be crying at the thought of being separated from him would be so much worse.

"Stay strong for me, Will," Hannibal says. "We will get you out of here."

There's firmness in that assertion. Leaving no room for doubt.

"Of course," Will mumbles, tugging his hands away.

Hannibal hesitates for a moment, as if he wants to say something else, but he simply rises from the cot and strides out of the cell. As soon as he's gone, Will burrows under the woolen blanket, disgusted with himself. He tries to ignore the feeling of semen between his thighs.

Despite the fact that Will's in a committed relationship (or what would appear to be a committed relationship to anyone who didn't know the truth about Hannibal's . . . . indiscretions), that doesn't stop Frederick Chilton from pursuing him with a tenacity that reminds Will of one of his dogs tugging on a knotted chew toy. This afternoon, Frederick has requested his presence for lunch. Will's locked behind the rust-stained iron bars of the visitation booth, a plastic cafeteria tray balanced on his knees: a side order of crinkled french fries, a leathery hunk of meatloaf, a watery slop of indistinguishable greens, and a small carton of generic juice from concentrate.

He sometimes misses Hannibal's cooking. Even now that he knows the "braised beef lung" wasn't really beef at all.

"It must be difficult," Frederick comments, struggling to balance kappa maki between his chopsticks. "Only being able to see him once a month."

"I manage."

"Of course. You still think that he's the reason why you're here."

"Something like that."

"Someday," Frederick says, a smile turning up the edges of his lips, "you're going to have to accept the fact that _you_ committed those murders. I just hope that, by that time, you haven't ruined your relationship with such a . . . _loyal_ partner."

"I don't think that will happen."

"Really? You don't think that continuing to accuse him of homicide will turn him off?" Frederick chuckles and drops another kappa maki onto his lap. He curses under his breath, grabbing a napkin to dab up the soy sauce, pawing at the fabric covering his thigh.

"Hannibal has very specific . . . tastes." Will smiles tightly at his own joke.

"What kind of tastes?"

"Nothing you'd be interested in."

"Try me."

Will momentarily imagines what that might be like: rummaging through Frederick's entrails, the intestines heavy and slick in his palms. He runs the length of his tongue down the lumps and crevices of the milky casing, lapping at the blood. He closes his eyes, absorbing the taste, and then lays the intestines (still connected to the rest of Frederick's internal organs, of course) down on a dinner plate. Picking up a glass of pinot grigio, he takes a sip before reaching out and offering the glass to the still-conscious hospital administrator on his kitchen counter. _Wine, Frederick?_

"Will?"

He's knocked out of his reverie.

"I really don't think you'd like it much," Will says with finality.

Frederick shrugs and stands. There's a sizable brown stain on his trousers from the soy sauce. "Well, if you ever need anything, during the other twenty-nine days of the month, just tell the guard. He'll come and get me." Frederick doesn't need to clarify what Will might "need."

"Aren't you concerned? About me being a mass murderer and everything?"

"That's part of the appeal, isn't it? That you're insane?"

And with one last greasy smile, Frederick leaves the room.

He wonders what Hannibal would do if he let Frederick fuck him. He wonders how long it would take before Frederick was attacked by another "escaped inmate." He wonders how Frederick would be arranged afterwards. Would he be degraded in the basest manner possible, left out in the middle of a field for everyone to stare at his exposed nakedness? Would he be strung up with his bowels spilling outwards, a bouquet offered up to his partner? Or would he be baked into a nutriloaf that would somehow find its way onto Will's cafeteria tray?

It's that last thought that keeps him silent. Even though he'd like nothing more than to get Frederick Chilton out of his life for good.

Alana comes to see him sometimes. She's working on his insanity defense. He used to insist that his defense be that he didn't murder anyone -- not that the encephalitis made him do it. However, with every day that passes here, he realizes that the content of his defense matters far less than the effectiveness. He cannot live out the remainder of his days behind these bars. Besides, if he's stuck here . . . then who will find the evidence to convict Hannibal Lecter? No one from the FBI's even looking.

"Are you doing any better?" Alana asks, slipping him some photographs of his mutts. There's one that he especially likes of Winston lying on his porch, his hairless belly warmed in the sun.

"I'm fine."

"Good." She fumbles in her briefcase for some paperwork. "I've been working on your case . . ." She accidentally spills the contents of her file folder all over the cement floor and then scrambles to pick up the pages. "I think that we have some compelling evidence here, Will. We're lucky that Hannibal kept such detailed records about your sessions. It shows a gradual progression towards incompetence that the jury would be hard-pressed to ignore . . ."

"Hannibal gave you his records?"

"Yes, of course. He's testifying on your behalf."

Will stands up so quickly that his metal chair falls backwards, clattering on the ground. "You can't let Hannibal testify."

"Why not?"

"He's going to say something . . . He's . . ." Will begins pacing the length of his cell, running his fingers through his oily mop of curls. "He's going to sabotage my defense. He wants to see me locked up in here."

"Will, that's completely untrue," Alana insists. "Hannibal wants to get you out of here more than anyone."

"No, he doesn't."

Alana takes a deep breath, and then as if speaking to an incompetent: "Look, I know that you're having a hard time making sense of what's happened to you. And I know that sometimes you think that Hannibal may have been responsible for the murders and for your incarceration. But you have to remember that your brain was diseased the entire time." She slides the file folder through the bars. "Hannibal loves you, Will."

"He has an interesting way of showing it."

"You'll be seeing him soon, right? Ask him yourself."

The next time he summons his prized patient for lunch, Frederick knows. His nostrils flare slightly when he enters the visitation room, and his lips pucker as though he's just tasted something acidic.

"We'll need to contact Hannibal," he says, sitting down and opening up a takeout container of fried rice. He uses a plastic fork this time.

"Not necessary."

"I beg to differ," Frederick says, bringing the fork to his lips. "Unless of course . . ." he says, his words muffled by the food. He pauses for a second, taking the time to chew, before continuing: "Unless of course you're interested in working out an alternative arrangement."

"An alternative arrangement?"

"I think you know what I mean."

Will knows what he means. He just can't believe that Frederick would have the audacity to propose cuckolding Hannibal.

"I . . . don't think that would be a good idea," Will responds in the understatement of the century.

Frederick shrugs, shovels some more fried rice into his mouth. "Suit yourself. I'll give him a call when I get back to my office." He lifts up another forkful but pauses: "Do you want some of this?"

Will looks down at his cafeteria tray. The guards have served him nutriloaf today, probably on the request of their employer. He jabs at the plasticky brick with his index finger. Supposedly, there are fourteen different ingredients in a nutriloaf; he cannot distinguish a single one of them. The orange might be carrot? Maybe? He carefully breaks off the end and brings it to his mouth. Through some culinary marvel, the nutriloaf manages to be both granular and mush at the same time. He tries to swallow but the substance refuses to go down his esophagus. He spits up onto the tray, wiping the back of his hand against his mouth.

"I'm willing to share," Frederick reminds him, plucking a shrimp from the container and balancing it on the end of the fork.

"Alright . . ."

Frederick comes closer to the booth and sticks the fork through the bars. When Will goes to grab the fork, Frederick quickly takes a step back. "We can't give you a fork," he says with a feigned look of disbelief. "Who knows what you'd do with it?"

He sticks the fork through the bars once again. Swallowing his pride, Will shuffles closer to the bars and stretches his mouth around the plastic. "That's it," Frederick whispers, his breath hitching slightly. Will jerks back, chewing and swallowing. It tastes fucking incredible. The best he's had in weeks.

He needs to get out of here.

He allows Frederick to feed him the remainder of the fried rice in the container. When Frederick places the last shrimp in the palm of his hand and holds it out to Will though, that's the line that he won't cross.

"I'm taken," Will snips bitterly.

"Of course," Frederick says, closing his fingers around the shrimp. "How could I forget. You're fucking the man who put you here." He tosses the shrimp into his mouth and swallows. "Or at least that's what you want to believe."

Will listens to the clicking of Frederick's shoes as he leaves the room.

He can already feel the warmth simmering underneath his flesh.


	2. Second Visit

"So how was it?" Will asks during his next lunch with Frederick. His cheeks are still discolored, mottled with splotches of rosacea. It's a side-effect that will be gone in a few days -- but, for now, it's an uncomfortable reminder of what he's forced to endure each month. Physicians sometimes refer to the redness as a "glow." Will finds that nomenclature to be condescending; there's nothing pleasant about being subject to the whims of his anatomy. He certainly doesn't "glow" every time he's forced into bed with the man who framed him.

"How was what?"

"I know that you watch every month."

Frederick doesn't even bother to refute the accusation.

"You have to admit, it's entertaining at the very least."

"I wouldn't say that."

"For someone who keeps insisting that his partner set him up, you're certainly . . . responsive."

Will can't resist taking the bait. With a tight-lipped smile, he asks: "Was it good for you too?"

"I think you know how it was for me."

Will makes eye contact with Frederick for just a second. Even though this man practically oozes his way through the hospital, dressed in a polyester-blend suit that he bought on his municipal salary with ballpoint pens shoved unceremoniously into his jacket pocket, Will recognizes a potential ally when he sees one. "Do you have anything for me to eat?" The guards have been serving him nearly-inedible porridge since his last meeting with Frederick, undoubtedly priming him for this moment. Not that Will would ever buckle under the pressure of poor culinary choices. But he cannot resist the opportunity to manipulate his keeper.

"I have some fruit salad in my bag," Frederick says, "but I'm afraid that I forgot to bring a fork today."

Will pretends to look put-out by that news.

"If you don't want it --"

"No," Will responds quickly. "That's fine. I don't need a fork."

As Frederick turns his attention to his briefcase, his patient considers how he can best stack the deck in his favor. He cannot withstand another month of "visits" from his former therapist. Everything about Hannibal has begun to repulse him. He finds his protestations of love to be especially cloying. It's abhorrent enough that Hannibal stuck him in this cell; the fact that he still insists that he loves Will, that he still envisions some sort of future for them, makes Will feel violently nauseous. Even thinking about Hannibal now, unbearably prim even in the middle of coitus, muttering endearments and affections, makes his guts curdle with a soured putrescence.

He will not remember the toothbrush that's waiting for him on the left side of the sink in Hannibal's bathroom.

He will not remember the unadulterated joy that he felt when he realized that Hannibal had bought him a toothbrush.

Frederick approaches the booth, a Tupperware container of fruit salad nestled in his palms. He opens the lid, a sucking sound emanating from the plastic, and then grabs a chunk of melon into the palm of his hand. He holds the fruit through the bars.

Will could do so many things right now. He could easily grab Frederick's wrist and snap the fragile bones. He could pull Frederick close and dig his thumb into his eye socket. He might even be able to shred his jugular with his incisors. But Will doesn't do any of those things. Instead, he leans forward and eats the melon out of Frederick's palm. He doesn't linger at the task; that would be cause for suspicion.

Still, a glance downwards reveals that Frederick's certainly enjoying himself.

"I like your mouth much more when it's not talking about Hannibal," Frederick says, picking up a sliver of pineapple.

"Are you jealous?"

"Should I not be?"

"I never said that," Will counters quickly. He shouldn't appear too willing; otherwise, Frederick will lose interest and any leverage he has over the man will disappear. "Although you should be more careful."

"You're starting to sound like you care about me."

"I don't care about you," he insists. "But Hannibal . . ."

Frederick rolls his eyes like a spoiled child. "Hannibal, Hannibal, Hannibal. What do I have to do to make you forget about Hannibal?"

Will looks up at Chilton before picking the pineapple up between his teeth. He eats it quickly, without even a modicum of fuss. "Why don't you tell me?"

Chilton wipes the palm of his hand on his trousers, leaving sticky juice on his outer thigh. "Guards," he calls, before adding: "I'll see you tomorrow, Will."

\-----------

Alana comes to visit him the next morning. She feels like home -- from the comforting softness of the wrinkles in the corners of her eyes to the flyaways that wisp around the edges of her face. He can picture her running through the muddy fields behind his house, chewed-up rubber ball clutched in her fist, the dogs yelping and nipping at her heels. _That_ should have been his future. He unconsciously scratches at the bite-mark on his throat, wondering where he could have gone so horribly wrong.

"Hannibal told me that you seemed out-of-sorts."

"Did he now."

"He loves you."

"So he keeps telling me."

"Will . . ." She sighs, resting her hands on top of his. "I know that a lot has happened to you over the past few months. I know that you're probably confused and that you don't know what to believe anymore. And we're all sympathetic, especially Hannibal. But you need to stop antagonizing him." She pauses for a second, hesitant to verbalize the reality of the situation. "You can't survive without him. You know that, right?"

Will cannot even bring himself to look at her.

"That's not true," he says quietly.

She pulls her hands back quickly, as though she's just touched scalding metal. The proverbial frying pan.

"Have you met someone? In here?"

Will shrugs noncommittally. Let them believe what they want.

"Will, listen to me." She darts her head around, trying to establish eye contact with him. "You have a good partner. Who has never faltered for an instant in his loyalty to you. The books that you tossed onto the floor the night before you were arrested? They're still lying there. It's important to him that you be able to come back home and feel as if nothing's changed in your absence."

Will wants to get up and leave the room, but he's been handcuffed to the table. He definitely doesn't want to listen to this.

"You cannot cheat on him with someone that you met in the maximum security ward in a psychiatric hospital. Do you know what that would do to him? Do you know what that would do to _you_?"

"He set me up." Will's words are barely audible. He knows that she won't believe him.

"I know that you believe that. I know that you believe that, and I know that you're going to destroy your relationship because of it. And _I feel sorry for you_."

As he lays awake in bed, Will tries to remember what he saw in Hannibal. Whatever it was, it probably had to do with the encephalitis and the fact that he was gradually losing his mind -- at least, that was what he thought . . . that was what Hannibal had led him to think . . . What was Hannibal supposed to be but an anchor mooring him to some semblance of sanity? Hannibal was supposed to be the crag that he could catch whenever he was tumbling down the mountain. That's the reason why Jack had brought him into the FBI -- to be whatever Will needed him to be.

As for Hannibal, he just needed Will to need him.

Because that need kept the FBI's shrewdest bloodhound from nipping at his heels.

It isn't a choice then. It has nothing to do with sentiment or affection. He needs to sever his bond with Hannibal in order to expose him, to bring him to justice. And if Frederick Chilton is the only option available to him, then Frederick Chilton will have to do.

The next day, he asks the guards if he can use the telephone.

"Will?" Hannibal's voice sounds repugnantly hopeful.

"Hannibal."

"Are you well?"

"Of course. You made sure of that last week."

"I'm glad to hear it."

Hannibal would never be uncouth enough to discuss their animalistic fucking over the telephone.

"We've been working on your defense," Hannibal reports. "The court has agreed to a bench trial because of your status as an FBI agent and your access to privileged information."

"Is a bench trial really in my best interest?"

"Anyone serving on a jury will have undoubtedly heard about Cassie Boyle and Marissa Schurr. And with both of them being so young, having their entire lives ahead of them, I cannot help but think that, even with all of the medical evidence, you would be hard-pressed to get an acquittal."

Will exhales, his breath saturated with words that he doesn't want to say. "Alana tells me that you plan on testifying at my trial."

"Of course, Will. How could I not?"

"I'd prefer it if you didn't."

An uncomfortable silence permeates through the speaker holes of the receiver. And then:

"Why not?"

"Does it matter? Doctor-patient confidentiality. You can't say anything without my express permission."

"You weren't paying for my services; the FBI was."

"That doesn't make a difference, and you know it. Stop insulting my intelligence, Hannibal."

"You're not thinking rationally, Will. You need to --"

But Will doesn't listen. He hangs up the receiver mid-sentence, knowing that Hannibal will spend the next half-hour bristling over the discourtesy. They're both right, of course -- Hannibal and Alana. Will needs testimony from a licensed psychiatrist attesting to his mental deterioration if he ever wants to get out of here -- but Hannibal, perpetually wrapped up in his own ego, has made one key mistake.

He's forgotten that he's not Will's only licensed psychiatrist.

\-----------

Will politely refuses Frederick's invitations for the following two weeks, doing his best impersonation of a man warring with his own conscious. When he finally does decide to accept, his flesh is glistening with a thin layer of sweat, reeking of a candied sweetness caused by glucose building up under his skin. Will has never found the scent particularly appealing and strongly believes that those who say they do are simply posturing.

"Thank you for making time in your busy schedule to see me, Special Agent Graham," Frederick deadpans, sitting down in the folding chair opposite the booth. He lifts the lid off of a Tupperware container filled with a pasta primavera. Comfort food. He slowly wraps the noodles around his fork, giving Will more than enough time to take in the fresh vegetables, the roasted chicken, the garlic soffritto.

"I've been doing a lot of thinking, Frederick."

"Have you now?"

"If, hypothetically, I were to terminate my relationship with Hannibal Lecter . . ."

"Go on." Frederick takes a bite of his meal, licking the sauce off of his lower lip.

"He's the only one who can testify that my encephalitis caused me to suffer from delusions, to lose time, to commit . . . deeds that I wouldn't have otherwise."

"He's not the only psychiatrist that could testify. You've been in my care for the past few months. I've observed first-hand the discrepancy between your behavior when you were first admitted and your behavior now. You were certainly not a man in your right mind."

"But now . . ."

"Well, that depends," Frederick says, putting his Tupperware container down on the seat of his chair and approaching the booth. "What would a sane man do in these circumstances? Would he allow himself to languish away in his cell or would he look for . . . alternative options?" He taps once, twice on the broad expanse of Will's chest, covered by the navy blue twill jumpsuit.

"I'm listening."

Frederick stares at Will for a long time. Will doesn't find him to be a particularly appealing choice of partner; he practically seeps liquid inferiority from his pores. From his embarrassingly diminutive stature to his knock-off watch, he does not, in any way, measure up to Will's previous partner. But at least Will can rest assured that Chilton won't make an attempt to gut him while he sleeps -- nor will he confess his undying love.

"How are you feeling, Will?" Frederick asks suddenly, moving to rest the back of his hand against Will's forehead. Will flinches a little bit -- more comfortable with the idea of cheating than the actual deed itself.

"Fine. I mean, warm but that's to be expected."

"Hmmm," Frederick hums, brushing back the sweat-slicked ringlets of his hair. He moves his fingers down to the scar tissue that rests at the juncture of Will's neck and shoulder. "Let me know when you're not feeling quite as . . . fine. We'll work something out."

And, with that, Chilton turns on the heels of his loafers and leaves.

About four days later, Will isn't feeling quite as fine.

Frederick has him brought up to his office. By the time the guards deposit him in a leather armchair, Will has become a trembling, dripping, clammy mess. He rubs the palms of his hands against the armrests, trying to dry them out slightly. Hannibal would have chastised him; Frederick just looks on in fascinated reverence. "You haven't rethought our arrangement, have you, Will?"

"Not at all, Frederick."

"Well then," he says, pulling his tie loose. "Let's begin, shall we?"


	3. Third Visit

Afterwards, when Will's lying in a puddle of ejaculate, drying cum stuck to the hairs of his inner thighs, he begins to regret his decision. Frederick's sprawled out next to him, panting heavily and looking far too self-satisfied for his own good. He reaches out and thoughtlessly rubs his thumb against the raw bite-mark on Will's throat that's still crusted over with congealed blood. "That's a good look for you," he comments with an arched eyebrow.

"Thanks," Will grits out, squinting his eyes closed against the light in the office. There's a static buzz that keeps pulsating against the bone-walls of his cranium.

"It's going to be uncomfortable for a while. We're not designed to be unfaithful, after all." And then, as if he were offering up some kind of conciliation prize, Frederick leans over and laps at the bite-mark with the flat of his tongue. Will's cock twitches miserably; Frederick notices.

"Want me to take your mind off of it?"

And despite the fact that he should say no, Will nods his consent. Frederick rolls over so that he's resting half on top of Will and, while Will would never think to use the word "tummy" when describing a grown man, he has to admit that the soft little paunch that sinks into him is best served by that word. Grinding himself against Will, so that Will's erection jabs awkwardly into the juncture between Frederick's thigh and pelvis, Frederick leans in close -- his spittle-caked lips coming millimeters away from Will's own -- but Will turns away at the last possible moment, leaving Frederick mouthing at the strip of flesh beneath his earlobe.

"We should probably get you back to your cell," Frederick murmurs, his breath sticky against Will's cheek. "After . . ." He allows the sentence to fade off as he gingerly rolls Will's testicles across the palm of his hand. Will jerks his hips, his sharp intake of his breath reverberating through the office. When Will comes, he clutches desperately at the space between Frederick's shoulder blades, sinking his fingernails into the flesh covering the rhomboid muscle. He lies there afterwards, pliant and exhausted, and lets Frederick worry the bite-mark with the edges of his teeth.

"And you'll testify?" Will asks, ignoring the way that his own spend is drying in tacky clumps all over his stomach.

"Certainly. It only benefits me to get you out of here."

Will's heart clenches -- the valves, the atria, the ventricles seizing up as if in the middle of a convulsion. "What do you mean?"

"What do you think I mean?" Frederick asks with a half-smile, as if Will's being absurd. "It's going to be something of a challenge, keeping all of this under wraps in a maximum-security psychiatric institution. But once you're free, we'll be able to see more of each other. It would be novel to do this in an actual bed."

Will's become somewhat adept at keeping his thoughts and feelings to himself. That's the reason why, instead of recoiling visibly at the thought of spending more time with Frederick than absolutely necessary, he allows his fingertips to drift up the expanse of Frederick's chest, lingering on his collarbone. "Thank you, Frederick."

He needs that testimony.

And no matter how repugnant he might find Frederick, he's still better than Hannibal.

\-----------

Will knows that Hannibal knows.

It's a feeling that sinks way down into the cells of his stomach lining. It sputters and cracks from the quick of his nail-beds all the way down to the calluses on his heels. Hannibal knows. And yet, he doesn't come. There are no phone calls, no chastising visits from Alana Bloom (in fact, there are no visits period which worries him most of all). Hannibal doesn't send legal notification that he's testifying on behalf of the state; he doesn't demand the keys to his row-house back from the properties manager at the BSHCI.

Just . . . silence.

Will supposes that he should be thankful for that.

But as the days ramble by, Will finds himself feeling more and more on edge. Frederick continues to call on him every day (interrupted only by out-of-town psychiatric conferences at which, Will has no doubt, Frederick's peers mock him mercilessly behind his back) and Will has come to view him as an inconvenience at best, an annoyance at worst. Today, they're sitting on the wingback club chairs in Frederick's office -- eating champagne shrimp and pasta out of styrofoam containers with plastic forks. "Have you heard from him at all?" Will asks.

"Not a word. I thought that I would have."

"Me too."

Frederick glances up from his noodles. "You're not rethinking this, are you?"

Will holds up a hand dismissively. "No, I'm not rethinking anything."

"I understand that it can be difficult to separate and if you feel that it's necessary --"

"We've discussed this, Frederick."

Frederick picks up a napkin, dabbing at the buttery sheen on his lips. "He was at the International Mental Health Conference last week, presenting research about the impact of consistency on cognitive dissonance. I hovered in the doorway for a few minutes -- impactful work, some of the best he's ever done -- because I couldn't find an empty chair; the entire lecture hall was packed to the brim . . ." He trails off, letting his wadded-up napkin fall carelessly into the top part of his styrofoam container.

"I'm guessing that your lecture wasn't as well attended."

"No. It wasn't."

Will finishes up his last bite of shrimp. "He can't keep it up forever."

"What? Being at the top of our field? Because I think you'll find that he can."

"Not that. The FBI will catch him eventually."

"Ah yes," Frederick counters. "You're still caught up in your delusion that he was responsible for all of those homicides. It would be so much easier if you would stop blaming yourself. Encephalitis can lead to short-term memory loss; there are documented cases of --"

"You still don't trust me?"

"I don't trust your brain. There's a difference."

"You said it yourself: I'm better now. _Cured._ "

"Have you ever had an infected wound, Mr. Graham?" Frederick inquires -- leaning forward in his chair, his elbows resting against his knees. "The flesh around the abrasion becomes warm, swollen, painful. It may feel as if whatever's under your skin -- the muscle, the tissues, the blood running through your veins -- has started throbbing and palpitating, as if it's trying to break through the surface." He reaches forward and, with an uncharacteristic tenderness, takes Will's hand between his own. "Now imagine that happening in your brain. An acute infection. That warmth becomes a fever; that swelling becomes a constant headache. And all of the neurons and dendrites and axons . . . they feel like they're trying to push their way out . . .

"It could make a man do . . . unconscionable things. Without even realizing it."

"I'm sure," Will affirms. "But not me. Not that."

Frederick lifts Will's hand, twisting it gently so that he can kiss the inside of his wrist -- the bristle of his beard scratching a phantom itch that Will wasn't even aware of until now. It makes Will feel uncomfortable. Like he's choking on words, and yet, if he opens his mouth, he has no idea what will come pouring out of him. Probably something embarrassing or offensive or both. He needs to get out of here.

"Frederick?"

"Hmmm?"

"I think that I would like to be alone now."

"Of course." Frederick drops his hand, as if the action meant nothing to him, and presses a button underneath his desk.

\-----------

A month passes. Still no word from Hannibal.

His absence wears on Will less and less nowadays, although the relief of not being emotionally dependent on a sociopath comes at a steep price. "It's just biology," Frederick assures him, during a stroll around the grounds. The sky is mottled like a bruise -- stormclouds dispersing and congealing across a sickly yellow sunset. Frederick's hand rests, clammy and bloated, in his own and yet . . .

Will nods.

They sit out on one of the knolls behind the sanatorium for a long time -- their shoes shucked off to the side, the blades of grass bending and whipping against the flesh of their bare feet. Will notices, during one of their long bouts of silence, that Frederick's toenails have been pedicured, each one of them rounded meticulously by a Chinese nail technician working overtime at a hole-in-the-wall salon in the East District. He quickly examines his own toenails, which are broken and craggy. He once dropped a cabinet on his second toe; the nail there now grows in thick, a brick of protein and keratin.

Frederick lies back against the dirt mount, the wind unsettling his thick bister ink hair. "Do you think about him often?"

"It depends. Are you asking because you care? Or are you just interested in the psychological effects of infidelity on Will Graham?"

"Both."

"Fair enough." Will grips a dandelion between his toes and roots it out of the earth. "Not as much as I used to."

"Do you think about me?"

"Why would I ever answer that question honestly, Frederick? If I say that I don't, you'll take offense, and I need you to testify at my trial. If I say that I do . . ." Will leaves that sentence unfinished, letting the fragile trembling limbs of the oak trees above them give voice to his thoughts.

The heft of wool covering his shoulders jolts him out of his reverie. He hadn't noticed that Frederick had sat up, that he'd removed his suit coat, that he'd draped it over the man next to him. "You looked cold," he says, by way of explanation, allowing his fingers to linger for a moment on the deep pitted scar on the side of Will's neck -- the one that perfectly matches the indentations of Frederick's incisors.

"I'm not," Will says -- but he grabs a fistful of material and wraps the coat more firmly around himself.

"Have you thought about what you're going to do when you leave here?"

"When. I think you mean _if_."

"If then."

"Go back to Wolf Trap," he says, looking out at the countryside stretching before them. "Be with my dogs. Fix motorboats. Go fishing." And then as an afterthought: "It wouldn't interest you."

"And it would have interested Hannibal?"

"No, of course not. After a few months, he would have grown tired of me. I would have turned out to be another disappointment, a traitor to my own _gift_."

"And then?"

"I like to think that I would have made a suitable entree."

Frederick's nose scrunches up comically at the thought. "You have a strange sense of humor, Mr. Graham."

Will laughs. One solitary chortle that echoes across the rolling hills that have spread across time immemorial. And then, without even thinking about it, he grabs Frederick and thrusts him down onto the moist dampness of the earth, rolling on top of him and pushing him hard into the soil. He grabs a handful of his hair and jerks back hard, revealing the expanse of his neck. The flesh remains unblemished apart from a few nicks left over from hurried shaving. Nothing like his own which has the remnants of not one, but two, scars that will never fade -- no matter how much time may pass.

He brings his lips down hard, as if he were trying to manufacture his own blister, his own scab on the tender juncture underneath Frederick's chin. He doesn't bite -- he feels no inclination to -- but he worries the flesh with his teeth and sucks hard along the surface, raising welts as he goes. He works his way up along Frederick's jawline, nipping at the space behind his ear, before he finds himself sloppily stumbling on his lips and then . . .

_Oh._

They've never kissed before. And the sudden realization of what's happening is enough to startle Will into stillness. So they lay there, their lips pressed against one another's but both of them too terrified to move -- to pull back, to push forward, to turn away, to grab a-hold . . . It's like being back at a high school dance, tucked into a dark corner of the gymnasium, gallons of hormones spouting through your bloodstream but unsure of where to go from there . . . Until finally, Frederick pulls back a few centimeters and murmurs, his syllables barely audible:

"You don't have to. If you don't want to."

But that's the thing that has been bothering him so much:

_Will does want to._

So he does. After all, as Frederick keeps telling him, it's just biology. He lets himself shift forward and press his lips against Frederick's -- so different than Hannibal's, which were perpetually stretched out into a thin line, pulled tight against the gaunt structure of his face. Frederick's are soft, permissive in comparison. He reaches his fingers down and begins clumsily pushing and prodding at the buttons of Frederick's shirt.

"Shouldn't we be doing this the other way around?" Frederick chuckles, but he doesn't make any move to unseat Will who's settled himself on top, bearing down on Frederick with the full force of his weight.

"It's a good look for you," Will declares, tossing the shirt off to the side and skimming his fingers down his torso, pushing gently on the thin layer of subcutaneous fat.

"What? Muddy?"

"Submissive."

Frederick arches his hips upwards, and Will takes the hint. He unbuckles Frederick's belt, pulling it out of the loops, and unzips his fly. The head of his cock peers out from under the waistband of his boxer-briefs, flushed and thick. Will quickly tugs down Frederick's trousers, his underwear getting caught in the shuffle, leaving him exposed in the chill autumn air. Will stares down at the man spread out before him, before hoisting Frederick's legs up over his shoulders.

"Let me," he exhales against the follicles of Frederick's beard.

"Yes."

Will has never fucked another man before and, while he'd like to think that his empathy would give him a certain advantage, that turns out not to be the case. As he thrusts inside of Frederick -- his cock, stunted by hormones, probably not making much of an impression -- he can't help feeling like an abject failure. Frederick just lays there on the embankment, his eyes scrunched shut, his lips pursed together tightly. He doesn't make a sound; no grunts or moans of affirmation. Just a strained silence. Will grits his teeth and comes quickly, not wanting to draw out this experience any more than necessary for his dissatisfied partner.

Will collapses to the ground next to Frederick, inhaling deeply into the pits of his lungs. The sun hangs low, like a blood-orange in the sky. It isn't until he hears a sharp, congested sniffling that he turns to look at the man next to him. Frederick's eyes are wet at the corners.

"Are you all right?"

"I don't know," Frederick responds, staring straight past Will.

"I'm sorry. I thought you wanted --"

"I did. I . . ." Frederick suddenly sticks his index finger between his teeth and bites down hard, trying to stop himself from crying. After a few moments, he takes his finger out of his mouth. Will can see the imprint of his teeth there. He knows that imprint; he sports the same one on his neck. "It wasn't supposed to be like this."

"Be like what?"

And, without another word, Frederick's scrabbling to his feet. He awkwardly yanks up his trousers and re-buckles them, before grabbing his now-discarded suit coat from the ground and pulling it tight around him. "I think that you should call Hannibal."

" _What?_ "

"It's only been a few months. You two can still reconcile."

"Where is _this_ coming from?"

"I took advantage of you. I'll yield all of my rights and --"

"Frederick --"

"You were under my care. I exploited your fragile mental state and agreed to perjure myself in a court of law in order to start an unjustifiable and, to be blunt, illegal relationship with you. It was a foolish act, and I'll offer up restitution to both you and your partner for any issues that --"

" _Frederick._ "

"Go back to Hannibal, Will."

And, without another word, Frederick starts trudging through the muck back towards the sanitarium -- leaving Will behind him.


	4. Fourth Visit

Will expects Hannibal to look insufferably smug the next time that he sees him.

He doesn't.

Instead, he looks mildly anemic, like his skin has been washed-out with milk, and his eyes under the phosphorescent prison lights are watery. Will takes a second to count the wrinkles in his button-down shirt. "Hello, Will," he says, dropping his briefcase onto the stainless steel chair bolted down by the cell door.

"You've looked better."

Hannibal smiles tightly, the skin of his cheeks stretched taut against angular bones. "I imagine I have."

" . . . You didn't have to come."

"Of course I did, Will." He yanks his tie loose and begins unbuttoning his shirt. They're carelessly flung over the back of the chair -- and Will's almost tempted to reach over and straighten them himself. "I could never turn my back on your needs."

"The implicit 'like you turned your back on mine' goes understood, of course."

"Your words, not mine."

Hannibal reaches down towards his belt, and that's when Will notices the slight tremor in his hands. It's a faint palsied twitch that shudders through his fingers. As Hannibal fumbles with the buckle, his index finger sputters and seizes up, as if struck with rigor mortis. He pauses, exhales, tries to will his muscles to release.

"I'm sorry," Will murmurs, having the decency to look away from Hannibal's infirmity. "I didn't . . ."

"It's no concern," Hannibal assures him. _Joint condition, Mr. Graham. Means joint decision._ The words of the BSHCI physician reverberate in the hollows of his eardrum. He knew, of course, but he'd never thought . . .

"I assumed you'd find someone . . ."

"I wasn't looking."

"Oh."

Hannibal finally manages to loosen the buckle and tug the belt out of its loops. He unbuttons the top of his trousers and, with a speed that could only be attributed to lack of confidence in his own motor skills, he jerks them down, taking his boxer-briefs with them. Hannibal stands there, naked except for his socks, in the blue-tinted cell light. His flesh, a mass of weeping sweat and puckered with goosebumps, reminds Will of a newly-plucked chicken. His hair sticks to his forehead in moist clumps.

It's around this time that Will realizes he's still fully-dressed.

"Would you mind --?" Hannibal asks and gestures to the prison cot.

Will notices that Hannibal's legs are beginning to quiver precariously. He nods and Hannibal almost collapses onto the mattress.

Will does not believe for one second that Hannibal Lecter would actually sacrifice his life for him. At the same time, he cannot figure out what Hannibal's endgame might be. Finally, he unzips the front of his prison-issued jumpsuit. "You could have, you know. Looked for someone else. I obviously wouldn't have minded."

"There's no one for me in this world except you, Will." Hannibal reaches up to rest his palm on the expanse of Will's hip as he shrugs off the jumpsuit. His thumb taps impatiently against the waistband of the white cotton boxers.

"Obviously, that doesn't go both ways."

"We all have our indiscretions," Hannibal concedes, squinting up through his eyelashes. "How was Frederick?"

Will shrugs noncommittally. Talking about Frederick feels wrong here. Will pulls down his boxers and steps out of them. He's fully erect; Hannibal isn't.

"I apologize," Hannibal says when he notices Will's stare lingering on his flaccid cock. "All of the physicians that I went to told me to find another partner as well. I didn't know how long you'd be otherwise engaged, so I finally found someone willing to put me on Praxitol."

_Oh._

Will steps backwards, allowing Hannibal's hand to fall into nothingness. His chest seizes, his heart pumping blood at a rapid-fire pace, but his expression remains stoically closed-off. He wonders if Hannibal's banking on Will staying with him out of a sense of obligation.

Or guilt.

Will has never been the best at dealing with guilt.

"Show me," he demands, and Hannibal reluctantly lifts his cock out of the way. His scrotum looks shriveled and flat, like an empty flesh-sack dangling between his legs. The physicians will probably insist on removing it in a few months -- a quick snip to the strands of tissue stubbornly affixing it to his body.

Will tries to come up with something to say, eventually settles on:

"Well. We won't have to use protection anymore at least."

"No, I suppose we won't."

Will wonders how many doses it took for the Praxitol to burn through Hannibal's testes like an atomic bomb detonated in his reproductive track.

"Do you have a patch or something? Can we make this work today?"

Hannibal holds out his upper arm, so that Will can clearly see the flesh-colored testosterone patch stuck to the inside -- right up near his armpit. "This doesn't change anything, Will. It just might take a little bit longer."

"That's fine." Will's trying his best to remain distant and detached; he feels like he's failing.

"I don't suppose you'd be willing to --" Hannibal starts, but he dismisses the thought almost immediately and grasps his cock in his left fist. Will watches him for a few minutes, as he rubs himself -- the sheen of perspiration coating his body making lubricant unnecessary. Hannibal's eyelashes flutter shut; his cheeks, chalky and discolored, finally flush.

Will drops to his knees.

He shuffles forward a couple of inches, until his nostrils are nestled right up against the wrinkled shaft of Hannibal's cock, until the wiry pubic hairs scratch against his cheek. He inhales deeply to check and see if Hannibal smells any different -- and, yes, his musky odor has been tempered by medication. He licks at the foreskin that sags around the head. Hannibal's breath catches in the back of his throat. His cock stiffens slightly; the foreskin begins to retract.

"Will."

"Hannibal."

Will gently takes Hannibal into his mouth, unsure of how sensitive the pharmacological cocktail has made his nerves. Hannibal keens deep in the back of his throat and bucks up in an uncharacteristic display of discourtesy. Gagging thickly, Will backs off and wraps his fist around the base. He guides the cock back into his mouth, working his tongue against the veins and ridges. He gets the slightest inkling of satisfaction when he feels Hannibal swelling, the blood engorging his tissue. He pulls back but continues working him with his fist.

"I don't want you to bite me."

Hannibal looks down at him, eyes half-lidded. "If you don't want that, then you may as well send me out now, Will."

"You care that little about my boundaries?"

"Not at all. I would have thought that was clear by now; after all, I haven't called on you once over the past few months, have I?"

"Then what's the problem?"

"I don't know if I'll be able to stop myself."

Will considers making a disparaging remark about how he should be able to control himself now, with all of his testosterone catheterized by medication -- but, in truth, he has no idea what depriving yourself for months would be like. He'd always considered that death would be a possibility, or infidelity; he'd never even considered getting a prescription. There were few doctors who'd be willing to write one, few pharmacists who'd be willing to fill one, and, even if you were able to get a bottle of those pills into your medicine cabinet, you'd have to contend with the aftermath.

Will doesn't say anything -- resigns himself instead to what's about to happen.

They fuck with abandon. Hannibal leaves marks, rimmed with saliva and thick with mottled blood under the skin. Perhaps as a testament to his chivalry, he doesn't actually puncture flesh until his moment of orgasm. His teeth sink in to the indentations that Frederick's left, trying their best to erase any claim made by the interloper. Will's throat opens and he releases a sound, lodged somewhere between a wail and moan, as Hannibal ejaculates dryly inside him.

When he pulls out, there's no trace that he was ever there. The backs of Will's thighs remain steadfastly unmoistened.

"Your case goes to trial next week," Hannibal says, gathering Will against his clammy chest. "I'll be testifying, of course. As will Frederick."

"You've spoken to Frederick."

"He approached me a few weeks ago. He apologized for manipulating you into acting against your nature, for taking advantage of you in your weakened and vulnerable position."

"You mean the position that you put me in."

"I couldn't have given you encephalitis, Will. That was simply chance."

Will tries to shuffle away to the opposite side of the mattress, but Hannibal holds him tight, inserting his knee between Will's thighs and reaching around to fondle Will's testicles in the palm of his hand.

"Why would he do that?" Will asks, rubbing himself back against Hannibal; however, an erection doesn't appear to be forthcoming. "He worked so hard to get me, and then he simply turned around one day and told me to go back to you."

"I have no idea," Hannibal murmurs into the crook of Will's neck, right up against the indentation of teeth-marks. "I'm not going to waste the time we have together with petty speculation." He strokes the stunted length of Will's cock a few times before stating: "I don't think that I'm going to be much good for a second round, but if you'd like to . . ."

Will's hips sputter to a stop, his eyebrows knitting together in confusion. "What?"

"There's some lubricant in my briefcase, if you'd like to be on top. I just want to see you satisfied, Will."

Will's eyes flutter shut, his head drops low. "I'm all right," he says quietly, gently removing Hannibal's hand. "I'd just like to rest, if you don't mind."

"Not at all, Will," Hannibal says and, even though he can't see behind him, he swears to god that Hannibal's smiling. The self-satisfied grin of the cat who's been playing with its prey. But now its claws are hooked around the mouse's tail, and there's no getting away. Hannibal wraps his arms firmly around Will's chest, pressing his mouth into the space above his collarbone, and mutters "goodnight, Will" before falling asleep.

Will stays awake for a long time.

\-----------

"You lied to me."

Frederick looks up from his laptop, the screen casting a blue-tinted glow on his face. "I never lied to you."

"You omitted the truth, which might as well be the same thing." Will comes up to the desk, sits in the leather wingback chair opposite Frederick. "Why didn't you tell me that he was on medication?"

"Because I didn't think it mattered. You'd made it clear that you didn't want to go back to him."

"I didn't. I wanted to stay with you."

"Will . . ."

"I don't _neuter_ men, Frederick. Just because you slept with me doesn't mean you're suddenly going to lose your manhood. You didn't have to run away like that."

Frederick shuts his laptop, the latch-click echoing against the walls of his office. He steeples his hands together and leans forward, taking a hard look at his one-time partner. "When he presented his most recent research at the Psychiatric and Mental Health Congress, everyone in the audience knew. We'd all attended medical school, and the signs were so obvious, really, when you knew what to look for. And the way that they looked at him then -- a panel of his peers, who had just a few months prior been tripping over themselves to lick his shoes clean . . ." Frederick trails off, pressing his fingertips to his lips. "I know that you're not responsible for his actions. I know that he made the choice himself and that he has to live with the repercussions. But it would be wrong to continue this liaison when . . ."

Frederick leans back, stares at the wainscoting on the back wall of his office. "He's going to lose everything, Will."

"Why? His research isn't any less compelling."

"You have no idea. They're saying that he's _mentally unsound_."

Will almost chuckles at that, but he manages to restrain himself. "That's what I've been saying for months."

"Will, this is not the time. His patients have been dropping left and right; I've heard that he can barely afford the rent on his office anymore and, as you know, Hannibal has always had expensive tastes."

"I know all about Hannibal's _tastes_."

"It would be wrong . . ." Frederick starts and then cuts himself off. He looks worn-down, but there's still something that's oddly pleasant about him. Despite the fact that he lives down here in the murk, his waders sunk deep in the sodden wastelands of mankind, he's always maintained a sense of normalcy. It's not difficult to believe that Frederick goes home to his living room each night, that he watches the television and orders take-out from a dingy Chinese restaurant down the street. That he's able to get up and leave all of _this_ behind him.

Will can't leave it behind; he takes it with him. Everywhere he goes.

"You belong with Hannibal," Frederick says firmly. "He obviously cares about you."

"He cares about me having nothing in my life but him."

"Will, I --"

But Will's already gotten up from his seat and darted around the desk. He sinks to his knees in front of Frederick, his palms pressed heavily against the fronts of Frederick's trousers, a scant few inches away from his cock. Frederick inhales deeply, trying to gather up the willpower to push him away and failing, as he does with all things. "I want you, Frederick. I want to go back home with you after this trial's over; I want to wake up in your bed every morning."

Will lets his hand drift upwards and settle over Frederick's cock. "I think about you all the time."

"You only think about me because you feel guilty, about what Hannibal's done for you."

Will drops his head, turning his gaze towards the carpet.

"Did he offer to let you fuck him, Will? Because he's having a hard time getting it up nowadays?" Frederick's palm hovers over the crown of Will's head, as if electro-static repulsion was keeping his hand locked at a distance. "What do they have him on? Injections? Patches? It's difficult to try to compensate for that much testosterone, if not impossible. The physicians will do what they can to make you both comfortable, but it will never be the same."

"And that frightens you, doesn't it," Will says, his voice low, rumbling in the pit of his chest. "When you let me . . . that frightened you because you didn't know that was something that you wanted. It's not something that you're _supposed_ to want . . . and, even though you knew better, somewhere in the most primal part of your mind, you _wondered_. You wondered if you were going to end up like Hannibal. You started to think that I might be the common link --"

"No, Will --"

"You did. Well, I'm not the common link, _Frederick_." Will removes his hands and stumbles to his feet. "I'm sorry that you enjoyed getting fucked. I'm sorry that you think that says something about you, about the measure of your masculinity. And I'm sorry that you don't realize that, once the gossip gets old, Hannibal's life will return to normal."

"I hope so, for your sake."

"You're a coward, Dr. Chilton," Will says, blinking his eyes, which have begun to irritatingly prickle, at a rapid-fire pace. "Maybe I was wrong to leave Hannibal after all."

And with that, Will leaves the office, flanked by two attendants in their white scrubs with their sedative needles at the ready.

\-----------

Only a few days after starting, the trial quickly comes to a close.

New evidence, compliments of the Chesapeake Ripper, makes the charges against Will Graham moot. And thus, with the wind blowing so hard that the rain slants sideways, Will exits the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane. Within seconds, his hair is plastered to his forehead, dripping with beads of water. He approaches the champagne-colored Aston Martin in the parking lot, wincing when the front door opens and Hannibal steps out into the storm. His scarf is wrapped tightly around his neck; a pair of boots protects his suit pants from renegade puddles.

They stand there, in a resigned stillness, for just a moment -- both of them getting soaked by the rain but unable to move forward.

Finally, Will speaks: "You know, this all could have been avoided. If you just hadn't fabricated that evidence and sicced the FBI on me."

"I was doing what I thought was right at the time."

"Getting someone else to take the fall?"

"Getting you to see me." Hannibal pushes a stray piece of Will's hair out of his eyes, strokes his face with the edge of his thumb. "You do see me now, don't you."

"Yes. I see you now." And then with a slight quirk of his lips, a half-smile: "I suppose I finally find you interesting."

"Then it was well worth the effort."

Will looks past Hannibal into the distance, the vast stretches of forest reaching out before them. The tangled tree branches reaching up into the sky, as if to pierce the stormclouds.

"Well," Will says, turning his gaze back to Hannibal. "Let's get on with it."


End file.
